


Reincarnation

by Writemeariver



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: John and Sherlock are soulmates, M/M, Reincarnation AU, only john remembers their past lives together
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-30
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2017-12-16 15:29:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/863602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writemeariver/pseuds/Writemeariver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock are reincarnated soul mates, but only John knows and remembers their past lives together</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello *waves* So this is a Sherlock story of mine I started a while back and am finally posting. I got the idea from a post I saw a while back on Tumblr
> 
> Imagine your OTP being reincarnated- multiple times. Only person B remembers their past lives.
> 
> So I figured I would give it a try. Please read and review!
> 
> This is also posted on fanfiction.net under WriteMeARiver
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, BBC or any other characters you may recognize

He had honestly thought that the bullet would have been the end of this life. God knows how many he had lived through, happy ones, sad ones, ones so painful he could barely think of them without a shudder running down his spine. Most people ranted about reincarnation and how it wasn't true, all just a bunch of 'hocus pocus.' He could never help but laugh in the confused face of whoever said it. He had lived too long, seen too many things to believe that it wasn't true. He had always had one constant though. Through all the lives he had lived, there had always been another. The face had always changed, the body, the mind, but by God, the eyes had always stayed the same. It was how he remembered them, how he picked them out of a crowd. They always found each other, no matter where or when they were. The only problem was, only he remembered everything. All the lives, every single moment. His other always had small instincts, a memory locked away at the back of their mind never to be touched. God it hurt, when he'd find his other half with someone else, happy. He forced the thought from his mind. He still hadn't met his soulmate in this lifetime.

'What if you never do, or they're taken again?' the vicious little voice in the back of his mind whispered.  
"Shut up" he muttered as he stretched out his stiff leg. With the help of his cane, he sat down on the edge of his tiny bed. John Watson, that was his name, at least in this lifetime. He had followed in the occupation of his past lives and joined the army. He was a born soldier, at least he had been told. The only divergence was that this time he had become a doctor. He had taken too many lives, fought too many wars and he wanted to do some sort of penance for it. He had always enjoyed healing, and he had been talented enough at it.

A bullet to the shoulder and a psychosomatic limp stopped his career and he moved back to London. He mused on all the many times he'd lived here before as he walked the ever so familiar streets. It had been at least two lifetimes since he had lived in London [deleted], but the layout of the city hadn't changed too much. He could still find his way around in a pinch. The day he met Mike in the park, he hadn't planned on ending up with a potential flatmate, but the universe works in funny ways, something he had realized years ago. The moment he laid eyes on Sherlock Holmes, he knew he had found it. Familiar grey eyes stared back at him and his heart sang with joy. 'Him' he corrected himself as he handed the man his phone and stared into the familiar eyes. Flashbacks of the year began to flash through his mind as he was sucked back in time.

__  
Ra beat down heavily against the whitewashed stone pillar that Khu leaned against and he couldn't help but fiddle with his short sword that strapped around his strong hips. He had been put on palace duty and he was bored. Of all the places to be stationed in the giant stone palace, he had to be in the slowest corridor. The slap of sandals brought him out of his thoughts and he straightened. A girl was running, her bronze cheeks tear stained and the kohl from her eyes smudging. Khu instantly reacted and moved forward, securing a large hand around her own slender wrist. The girl stopped and ripped her wrist from his grip, fire in her eyes. She was dressed richly, golden necklace around her neck and small circlet around her head. Khu shot back, letting go off her grip, almost disappointed of the loss of warmth he had felt. He studied her closer and realized whom he had just grabbed.  
"My princess my deepest apologies." He dropped to his knees immediately, and hoped his actions would not serve his own death. A cool, gentle hand touched his chin and he couldn't help but look up into the eyes of the princess. Warm breath flowed across his face as she leaned in close, mouth beside his ear and he knew he was lost. 

The scene changed yet again and John blinked a few times before the new barrage covered his mind.

_It was cool and damp on the plains, and Jandal Khan stared at his tiny band. Horses dotted fur tents and their breaths came out in puffs of steam in the cold air. He stroked his own mounts neck and slowly took him to his own tent. He took off the wooden saddle from the mighty black stallions back and removed the bridle and slipped a crude rope halter over stop. He stroked the velvet nose and was rewarded with a strong nudge. He chuckled and ran a hand over his long blonde hair._

_"Another successful raid Khan?" Jandal didn't bother to turn but grunted in acknowledgement. He was not a particularly young man, almost reaching his 39th year. Raids and battles had taken their toll on his once youthful body._

_"Yes," he answered shortly. He thought back to the one boy they had taken along with a large amount of other slaves. He had been a young man, couldn't be more than 18 years old. His hair was cropped just above his shoulders and was surprisingly curly, tied back with a leather thong. Something about the boy intrigued the warlord, though he was unsure what exactly. He seemed familiar, but Jandal could not put his finger on it. "Bring the boy to me," he said calmly to the attendant who'd addressed him. Jandal made his way into his tent and blinked a few times to allow his eyes to adjust to the smoky darkness in the tent. He settled in some of the furs laid out across from the doorway. He allowed himself a rare sip of shimiin arkhi and reveled the burn down his throat. Wiping his hand across his mouth, he watched as the tent flaps were pushed aside and his man walked back in, pushing the boy in front of him. The boy looked terrified though there was a defiant spark in his eyes._

_Jandal dismissed the rider with a wave of his hand and moved around the fire with the ease of a tiger stalking its prey. He could almost smell the boys fear in the air, and he could not help but notice the slight quiver that shook through the boy as he raised a hand to brush hair out of his face. A slave most likely, the warlord thought, something in Jandal's chest growling at the thought of someone touching this boy. He placed a heavy hand on his shoulder, ignoring the intense shivers that were racking him, and was greeted with a familiar sight. Lives flashed before his eyes and a soft grin crossed a face that had barely cracked a smile in 32 years. Noting the boys terror, Jandal removed his hand and gently stroked his strong cheekbones.  
"Do not fear, I shall not hurt you Bi chamd khairtai , you are safe," he whispered tenderly. The boy felt bony and awkward as Jandal reached out and drew him to his chest in an awkward hug of sorts. When he let go he moved back to see the grey eyes boy smiling._

__

Once more the scene changed, but only for a second, changing rapidly. Lives flashed before his eyes and he felt himself living hundreds of lives, always searching for the same soul. It nearly killed him as the man dashed off with barely a passing glance, only peering around the corner to introduce himself. Sherlock Holmes,he mused to himself, rolling the name on his tongue. He wished Mike a good day and headed back to the tiny, lonely apartment that he currently occupied, full of hope and anticipation.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock Holmes was a brilliant man. He didn’t say it as an ego boost or as a joke, but as the cold honest truth. Along with a razor sharp mind, he had an impeccable memory. One that could remember the thousands of deductions he had made and store them for later use. The one thing that Sherlock could not place though, no matter how many times he searched his mind palace, was where he had seen John Watson before.

His deductions had been accurate if the man’s reaction was anything to go by, but none of them would explain to the consulting detective where he knew him from. It bothered him. There was something about John Watson. Beyond the army, beyond the doctor; something about the man himself. Sherlock was itching to see him again so he would be able to figure out who John was.

The consulting detective shrugged as he flicked open a paper. Serial suicides, bah. It was only a matter of time until Lestrade came knocking at his door. He checked his phone for the time and settled down for yet another boring night. He would figure out John Watson tomorrow.

~~~~

“There’s a second bedroom upstairs, if you’ll be needing it.”

It took all John had not to make a comment; to make up some reply that of course they would be needing it.

I wish, he thought to himself as he limped over to an empty chair and settled himself down.

What he didn’t expect was to be dragged across half the city to some crime scene. He couldn’t help the multitude of compliments that slipped past his lips as he watched Sherlock’s deductions. God, this reincarnation was brilliant.

John wasn’t too happy to have been left by Sherlock at the crime scene, but it was just a quirk he had to adjust to. He always did.

In one of his past lives, John had been a Roman soldier and Sherlock had been a high-spirited Noble’s daughter who thought it was the most entertaining thing to sneak into his home at night to scare him, kiss him, and then leave without saying a word. Or, on some occasions, she would flirt with him in front of his men, and he would have to act all gruff to keep his men’s respect of course, but then grovel later on when they were alone. God, she had loved to tease him.

His thoughts took a darker turn as he remembered his own death. He had been fighting a group of barbarians when an arrow struck his shoulder. It wasn’t a bad wound in itself, but infection had set in later and killed him.  
 _  
He was freezing cold. No matter how many cloaks he was wrapped in, no matter how close he was to the fire, he could feel it in his bones. Someone, one of his men he supposed, was dabbing at his forehead with a cool cloth. His shoulder felt as if it was on fire and he could do nothing about it. He licked his dry lips and tried to look around at his surroundings. His troop had actually been returning when they were attacked, so after they had won, the trip had been mercifully short._

_He could see teary grey eyes above him a-._

 

John forced the memory away. He had started walking, thoughts in turmoil over Sherlock. He barely noticed when a phone beside him rang. He did not expect, in the least, to be whisked off to some covert meeting with a balding man that carried an umbrella. He bristled at the thought of going behind Sherlock’s back to tell this man about him.

In all of his lives he had been called many things, but disloyal was not one of them. The series of texts that came throughout the meeting had John anxious. Something could be happening to his new flatmate and he wasn’t there to help. The soldier in him kept him calm and listening to the man, but the other side of him, the side which contained his love for his other half, was screaming at him to go.

He attempted to make small talk with Anthea, or whatever her name was, but all he got were a few one-word answers. He gave up trying, only asking if they could stop by his old apartment. He wanted his gun incase something happened.

~

He had shot a man. No, he had shot a man to save Sherlock’s life. There was some difference. At least, that John was forcing himself to believe. In a way it was self defense; if Sherlock died, John knew he would not be far behind him. He could not live another lifetime without the other man. Even if he was resigned to live as a friend, he would do all he could to ensure that he was the greatest friend there ever was.

As he sat in their new flat, John couldn't help but watch the skinny, black-haired man. Sherlock, after returning from a sparse dinner, had immediately fallen onto the couch. The doctor in John first looked for the gentle rise and fall of the mans chest before moving his gaze up to his face. 

He looked so young and innocent, and it killed John he was not able to get up and place a kiss on Sherlock’s forehead. Shaking his head, he turned off his laptop and stood up slowly. John was still reveling in the fact his limp was gone, just like that. The blond doctor looked fondly over at the consulting detective, not even noticing the unconscious smile that covered his face.

Walking as softly as he could so as to not wake Sherlock, the doctor made his way over to the couch. Pulling a soft looking blanket from the back of it, he gently draped it over the young man’s sleeping form. Hedging his bets, John leaned down and ever so gently pressed his lips to Sherlock’s forehead.

“I wish that for once you would remember.”

John straightened up and quickly climbed the stairs to his own room, leaving a very awake and confused Sherlock.

The consulting detective touched his forehead and filed away the gentle touch of John’s lips. John had believed he was sleeping - a simple mistake. Sherlock rarely kept to a normal schedule and he still had a good day or two before he crashed. He would fake sleep again though, bloody hell, he would sleep for real if it meant he could feel his flatmate’s cool lips once more.

‘What has gotten into me?’ he couldn’t help but wonder, ‘And remember what?’

Whatever it was, it would have to wait. Sherlock re-settled on the couch, pulling the blanket tighter around himself, and closed his eyes.

John Watson was his last thought as he unintentionally fell asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I've kinda abandoned this fic.... but here's something...sooooooo enjoy?

John, if he was to be honest to himself, barely remembered most of his lives. There had been so many, countless, that blended together with each year he lived in a life, and each time he was reborn. Significant ones stood out, but most were lost to time. Years before he had remembered so much more, yet the human brain was fickle, and only so much could be remembered.

Every time though, every rebirth, there was a point of his life when he simply knew that he had lived many lives before. It never began with memories of the lives he had lived, but the knowledge that his soul? His identity? His being of a human was not new. He had lived as conquers, slaves, mighty warriors and meek villagers. and often it overwhelmed him. It usually began with dreams, dreams that led to random flashes of memories that led to full fledged identities that he had lived as. Sometimes he saw it in the eyes of people he passed, recognising them from past lives. Usually they walked past, oblivious to the connection they shared. But sometimes, usually not more than once in a lifetime, if he was lucky, they would remember as well, and his burden could be lifted if even for a conversation. He would no longer be alone in his age and for a while it would put him at peace. He had even married a few of the people he had met before, if he could not find his grey eyes, or if they were already married, or in the worst case dead. It was usually a marriage of convenience and comfort, and it gave him a small form of solace in the lives that he could not live with them.

No matter what he saw though, no matter what he remembered the first thing was always the grey eyes. From birth, he'd know that the person who wore those eyes were the one that he was to find and to live with for the natural span of his lifetime. Whether by science, or some strange ancient magic, (which as lives went on John would begin to believe in though he would never say it allowed).

If being with his soulmate in this lifetime meant living with the impossible Sherlock Holmes, well John was willing to accept it. He would be willing to put up with heads in the fridge, or eyeballs in the microwave (he drew a line on the sugar though. He liked his tea sweet, and he was not going to let anyone, even his soulmate mess with it) all to be in the same room with his grey-eyed soulmate. 

Sherlock Holmes was not an easy man to live with, and it took nearly every ounce of patience that John possessed to not either murder the infuriating man, or kiss him until he either remembered or at least was shocked enough to jolt something, anything. John could hope though, that Sherlock would one day just remember and sweep in and tell him so and he could finally rest his mind of the matter. Reality was much more harsh though, and John was left to wait.

If he didn't kill the bloody man first, soulmate or not.


End file.
